


Like You in the Rest

by shy__violet



Series: Aboard the USS Zeus [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M, John wears a skant, M/M, half-betazoid!sherlock, half-vulcan!john, hologram!Molly, holograms, insensitivity, more holograms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shy__violet/pseuds/shy__violet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MOLLY tries to ask Greg out.  Sherlock does a  bad, then fixes it.</p><p>AN:  Since Dirty_Corza and I are sort of tackling things in thise 'verse as they come to us (which means there may, at times, be inadequate backstory or explanation of things for readers who aren't in our heads and are thus unaware of the things we've established), it may be helpful to know that both John and Sherlock are half human and deal with their non-terrestrial cultures differently than people like Spock or Lwaxana Troi, respectively. John studied Vulcan ways and decided that, for him, a hybrid approach was better than the strict control they practiced. He can control his emotions, and he usually does, just not as much as someone like Spock would. He has the ability to do that--he just chooses not to most of the time because he embraces his humanity and Vulcan-ness equally. As for Sherlock, he basically learned enough about his emotions and his to be able to manipulate people, though he is learning a bit here and there about not being an utter cock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like You in the Rest

Greg came barreling around the corner into the morgue, bashing into a very solid light projection and nearly knocking her over.

“Oh, god, MOLLY—” he half-shouted, arm shooting out to wrap around her waist and keep her from crashing into the tray of surgical instruments behind her. “I...” With MOLLY in his arms, Greg found his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “God, I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying any attention.  You all right?”

She looked up at him, mouth hanging open a bit as he set her to rights.  If she ever felt the need to draw breath, MOLLY was sure she’d be panting right now, her digital bosom veritably heaving as she met Greg’s gaze.  He was so close, she could practically feel his breath on her cheek.  She closed her eyes tight and shook herself.

“Yes, ah, fine thanks,” the hologram stammered, extricating herself from Greg’s embrace while staring pointedly at the floor.  “What brings you down my way?”

“Just wanted to see if you had a write-up on whatever killed Marcus and Avila.  Captain wants to make sure it’s not contagious or that we’ve got an anti-toxin on file.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” MOLLY looked a bit chagrinned when Greg stated his business, but flicked through her digital clipboard to find the autopsy reports for him. “Right, here.  Both died from…kaylo poisoning, looks like.  Toxin was ingested orally in an incredibly small dose—kaylo is really potent—then swelling of the esophagus led to asphyxiation.”

Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “Shit.  That certainly explains witnesses’ statements of Avila and Marcus complaining of pain in their extremities. Any idea how it was administered?”

“Other than orally, no, not a clue. Sorry.” She winced, biting her lip.  She hated not having a better answer for Greg.

“No need to apologize—that stuff’s really more my division than yours.”  He smiled at her.  If light could melt, MOLLY thought, that smile would turn her liquid.  Every time. 

“Anyway, thanks for the report,” Greg said and turned to go.

“Uhm, not a problem, really.  Anytime!” MOLLY fidgeted with her clipboard, gathering courage from the very depths of her programming as Greg walked away. “Wait, Greg!” she called after him; he stopped and turned.  Voices filtered into the morgue from the hallway, soft but growing louder.

“Would you…I mean, I know I can’t really leave the lab or anything, but I thought you might—I don’t know, wanna have a coffee with me sometime?” she said in a great, faltering rush. She felt the light that constituted her face warming—oh, god, she was _blushing—_ and set about trying to memorize the floor tiles.

“Why on earth would anyone want to have coffee with a _hologram_?” came a voice from the door, rich and deep and positively dripping with disdain.  “It’s not even as if it can drink coffee anyway.”

Molly’s head snapped up, doe eyes wide and shocked at the sight of Sherlock in the doorway, John a step behind him.  The heat on her face faded as quickly as it had come, leaving her ash-white and panicking.  She curled in on herself, stepping back from Greg.

“I know, that’s why it’s…I—stupid, so stupid,” she trailed off, defeated, retreating, moisture clinging to the corners of her eyes.  She wrapped her arms around her chest and quickly turned her back to them, fading a bit as she powered herself down.

“No, wait, MOLLY!  Wait!” Greg reached for her, but his fingers closed on empty air where the projection of her arm had been.  Finding nothing, no MOLLY to touch, those fingers closed into a fist; Greg’s face was the picture of thunderous rage as he wheeled around, closing the distance between him and Sherlock in two quick strides.

“I have _never_ seen an officer behave so _fucking_ ignorantly in all my years in Starfleet,” he shouted in the Betazoid’s face, his own going a bit purple.  Sherlock looked visibly shaken at Greg’s outburst—no doubt he could feel the emotions that went along with the yelling, could see the choicer of the mental images Greg had of decking him then and there.  John, his face a mask at the moment, had the decency to take a step back, jaw clenching.  Greg levelled his gaze at Sherlock, his eyes storm-black and fierce.  “I have to go deliver a report to the captain.  The next time I see you, you will be able to tell me exactly why your behavior was so goddamn appalling, _and_ you will have given MOLLY an appropriate and legitimate apology.  Are we clear?”

“I fail to see why I should apologize to a computer prog—” Sherlock began, but Greg cut him off, their bodies scant centimeters apart as Greg glared up at him.

“I said, _are we clear, lieutenant?_ ” he growled through clenched teeth.

Sherlock swallowed, eyes narrowing as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Crystal, commander.”

“Good. Now move.”

Cautiously, Sherlock stepped out of the doorway so Greg could pass.  John nodded a greeting to the superior officer as the older man thundered out of the morgue.

“Well, that was certainly dramatic,” Sherlock sniffed without so much as a care, walking into the morgue and scuffling about behind MOLLY’s desk as John leaned against the doorframe.  The doctor’s expression was clouded, and he clenched and unclenched his fists while he watched Sherlock digging through drawers.  “I don’t see why anyone would get so upset over a medical hologram.”

That was all John would take.  His impassive façade was replaced by one of fury and indignation.  John pushed himself out of the doorway, his body coiled, practically preparing for combat, and he launched himself at Sherlock, his voice grating as he began to yell.  “First of all, you great sodding jackass, _her_ name is _MOLLY._  D’you understand that? _MOLLY._ ”  John moved as he spoke, stalking behind the desk, cornering the taller man.  Sherlock sank into MOLLY’s chair, shrinking away from the very _feel_ of John as the doctor loomed over him, resuming his tirade.  “And just because she’s made of non-biological components doesn’t mean you get to treat her like a fucking _tricorder._ ”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide as the full Vulcan force of John’s anger ripped at his mind like the first shockwave of a supernova tearing through everything in front of it.  It was hard to breathe.  Sherlock made a valiant effort of it nonetheless and managed to push out enough air to begin a weak protest of, “John, I—” before John raised his hand, cutting him off.

“No.  You don’t get to talk yet, because I really don’t think you understand this.” John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to get a handle on his emotions.  “Molly may not be biologically alive, Sherlock.  But she is _sentient._   You know what that means, yeah?  Got the definition stored in that great big idiotic brain of yours, I’m sure, but in case you don’t—computer! Define _sentient.”_

“Sentience is a quality of being, in which one who is sentient is an intelligent, self-aware, conscious entity that feels or is capable of feeling and is deserving of rights, respect, and freedom,” came the answer in the computer’s sonorous voice.

“MOLLY is all of those things, Sherlock.  She is intelligent. She is self-aware and conscious.  She _feels,_ ” John took in a shuddering breath, starting to shake a bit from the weight of his own emotions.  Avoiding eye contact, Sherlock sheepishly turned his head, drawing his knees up to his chest.  John sat on the edge of the desk.  “God, Sherlock, she _feels!_ You could see on her face how what you said cut her, left her fucking heartbroken!  How could you not notice?”

“I couldn’t feel her.  Never have,” he muttered into his arms.

“And because you couldn’t feel her, you assumed she didn’t feel and therefor was to be put in the same category as a comlink or a laser scalpel, classified as a _thing_?” John looked at him, exasperated.  Sherlock nodded. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Right.  Of course.  All right, then, look.  Can you feel me all the time?” John asked, deliberately pulling back into himself, into that Vulcan space in his mind that he knew Sherlock had trouble feeling.  “Can you feel me now?”  Still looking away, Sherlock shook his head.

“And just because you can’t feel me, does that mean I’m not a person in that moment? Do I cease to be a sentient being?” John paused, watching Sherlock’s reaction.  “The only difference between MOLLY and me is that she’s made of light.”

At that, Sherlock seemed to finally cotton on, his head snapping up from where it rested on his knees as he looked at John, puzzled.  “So, what you’re saying—it’s like I called you a…oh, god, I’m an _idiot_ ,” he said, unfolding himself in the chair. “Something, I always miss _something_.”

John grinned a bit at that, running a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “’S all right, t’hy’la.  Live and learn, yeah?” Leaning down, he kissed Sherlock’s temple.  “Well that’s half of Greg’s order sorted.  Now you just have to figure out how to apologize to poor MOLLY.”

Sherlock nodded and leaned into John, a bit worn out from all he’d felt in the last twenty minutes.  John just let him be close, staying in the Vulcan part of his mind to let Sherlock not feel for a bit.  He listened to the sound of their breathing for long, still minutes until Sherlock shot to his feet, nearly cracking his skull on John’s jaw as he did and sending the medical officer hurtling from the desktop.

“ _Oh_! That’s _brilliant_ , _I’m_ brilliant, John don’t wait up!” he crowed, running out of the morgue in a rush as John picked himself up off the floor to be left wondering just what his partner was up to now.

 

 

It was three days before anyone saw Sherlock again, and when he finally did turn back up, it was with a jumbled armful of unidentifiable equipment as he ploughed into John’s quarters.  Cup of tea halfway to his mouth, John gaped as his very best beloved dumped the whole lot on his table.  He blew out a long breath and set his cup down.

“And just what is all this,” he asked, eyebrows quirking toward his hairline.

“Don’t be dense. It’s MOLLY’s apology, John!”

“Oh, of course, how silly of me!  I should have figured that out in the _three bloody days_ you were gone,” he snarked,  getting up from his chair and crossing to the other side of the table, where Sherlock paced back and forth rather manically. “Hey,” he said softly, holding his hand out to the programmer. “I missed you, you know,” John continued, twining their fingers and pulling the taller man close, so he could bury his face against Sherlock’s shoulder.

Smiling, just a bit, Sherlock squeezed John’s hand, his other curving around the doctor’s waist.  “I know, imzadi…” he paused, suddenly shy, and pressed a kiss into John’s hair.  “I felt it.”

John’s breath all but stopped at that, at the fact that Sherlock had been able to feel him when he was god-knew-where and hip-deep in a new program.  He smiled—beamed, really—against the empath’s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of Sherlock’s uniform before looking up at him, his eyes dark and thoughtful.  “I know you like to skive off and disappear when you’re really into a new bit of programming.  I love watching you get immersed in your—you’re absolutely brilliant, takes my breath away.  Just…remember to come home at night, all right?”  He grinned weakly, extricating his hand from Sherlock’s so he could press the tips of their index and middle fingers together.  The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, then way it did when he was genuinely and completely happy.

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything,” he said, watching as John nodded in understanding.  Suddenly, his eyes went wide, and snapped to attention, remembering.  “MOLLY’s apology, John!  She still won’t run fo—talk to me, so I’ll need your help.  I need you to get her out of the morgue so I can set it up.”  Sherlock was already pushing John toward the door.

“What, y’mean right now?  And how exactly am I supposed to get a hologram _whose primary projector_ is in the morgue _out of the morgue_?” John tugged at the waist of his skant, straightening it as he allowed himself to be bullied out of his quarters ( _and backwards, no less_ , he thought).  “And if MOLLY won’t talk to you, why not just go down and set it up anyway?  It’s not like she’ll stay on while you’re there.”

Sherlock paused with John halfway out the door and rolled his eyes.  “To begin with, I want it to be a surprise.  It would also be incredibly rude of me to just waltz in there, as MOLLY would immediately turn herself off—I don’t want to interrupt her like _that_.”  John gaped at Sherlock’s sudden care, likely the product of the lecture he’d received at John’s hands three days prior.  Sherlock turned John around and continued to manhandle him through the doorway.  “As for how you’ll get her out of there, you’re reasonably intelligent; you’ll be able to figure something out. And if not, Greg’s off duty right now—I’m sure he’d love to help.  I’ll give you fifteen minutes before I head down to set this up.  Now, scoot!”  He shooed John away, letting the door swish shut in the doctor’s face.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, John began his trudge down to the morgue, thinking of what he could do to effectively distract MOLLY.  He was halfway down the hall when an idea sent him racing back to his quarters.

Sherlock’s head whipped around as he heard the door open. “John, what on earth are you doing back here? I _told you_ I need you to take care of MOLLY!” Sherlock barked from where he sat on the floor, tinkering with his pile of MOLLY-apology.  John ignored him and strode over to the replicator.

“Portable holo-emitter,” he said, watching the palm-sized silver trapezoid materialize.  He picked it up and dashed out of the room, winking at Sherlock as he went.

 

 

 

“I really don’t see why I have to check his bleeding program when I’m off duty,” Greg groused, walking with John to the Holodeck.

“Neither do I, mate, but he told me to find you and make sure it got done.  Today.  In the next fifteen minutes,” John rambled, unable to stop himself.

“Right…” Greg eyed him, leery.  “And where is his highness?  Couldn’t be arsed to come to his own programming check?”  Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets, scuffing his boots on the floor as they walked, and John shook his head.  “Course not.  Git.  Anyway, what’s this new program I’m supposed to be making sure functions?”

“Uhhh…he, ah…he wouldn’t say, actually,” John spluttered, grinning.  “Oh, look!  We’re here!”

Greg gave John a sidelong glance as they walked up to the Holodeck, one eyebrow quirking while he watched the doctor enter a sequence of codes on a panel near the doorway.  He tilted his gaze toward the ceiling as he puffed out a breath.  “John, why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something?”

John’s grin, already fit to split his face, grew impossibly wider.  “Because I’m not.  After you!” he gestured to the doors of the Holodeck as they whispered open.  Greg cautiously peered inside, expecting to be met with one of Sherlock’s disasters-waiting-to-happen (the man was a brilliant coder, but the things he put in the system occasionally ran just the other side of mental).  Instead of seeing some kind of ravenous new species of carnivorous plant, he only saw…

“MOLLY!” Greg gasped.  “What’re you doing here?”

The hologram waved at him, grinning shyly.  “Uhm, hi, Greg.  John said Sherlock needed help testing a new bit of coding and asked me to, well, help.”

“So, any idea what we’re testing, then?” he asked, sidling into the room.

“Sorry, no,” she trailed off.  “John, give us a hint?”

“We-ell…” John bit his lip, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief, “you’re not so much testing a program for Sherlock as…going on, um, a date. Computer, run program Watson four-seven-two-dash-cee.  Have fun!” he called as he ducked out of the suite, leaving MOLLY and Greg gawking at one another as the program began to run.

 

 

“…and the poor bloke ended up completely covered in Koganka pudding! Head to toe!” Greg’s laugh echoed down the corridor, underscored by MOLLY’s quieter giggle. “The bride didn’t even get so much as a bite!”  Their laughter continued to precede them as pair turned the corner and entered the morgue, MOLLY’s arm wound through Greg’s—thanks to John’s portable emitter (why MOLLY hadn’t had one before now was anyone’s guess, but now the hologram was free to come and go as she pleased).  They stopped in the doorway, surprised to see a very smug John Watson sitting on one of the dissecting tables, kicking his legs a bit as he smiled and apparently talked to Sherlock, whose long legs protruded from behind MOLLY’s desk at a rather odd angle.

“…never mind, Sherlock, she’s back,” he said, and a resounding _thump_ was heard from beneath the desk.

“Damn it—should have programmed it to be less…scampery,” Sherlock half-snarled, carefully worming his way out from under the desk, something cradled to his chest.  He pushed himself up on his elbows and knees, then stood, a small dust bunny caught in his dark curls.  Greg glared at him, still angry from their previous altercation. 

“And just what d’you think you’re doing down here?” Greg asked the taller man.  “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you again until you’d apologized to MOLLY.”

“If you’d just _shut up_ for a moment, you’d see that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Sherlock replied, walking over to MOLLY and holding out his hands to her.  “I…I programmed him.  For you.”  Curled up in the hollow of his palms was a tiny ball of orange fluff.

“Is that—” Greg started.

“A _kitten!_ Oh, Sherlock,” MOLLY’s breath would have caught in her throat if she’d had any.  The kitten reached out a tiny paw toward her.  She tentatively reached out to it—animals didn’t usually like her because of her lack of scent and substance.  It rested its paw on her finger.  “C-can I…?”

Sherlock smiled a bit, holding the kitten out for her to take.  “Of course.  He is yours, after all.” 

Slowly, so slowly, MOLLY scooped the kitten out of Sherlock’s hands and held it in hers as it purred. She felt the soft down of its fur catching on her fingertips, the contented rumble of its purr against her palm.  Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she choked back a sob while she stroked its nose with her thumb.  Sherlock looked absolutely horrified.

“You…I’m sorry, MOLLY, so sorry—here, just let me, I’ll fix it,” he began to gibber, trying to take the kitten back.  “I didn’t think I’d get it wrong…oh, MOLLY, please, please don’t cry, I’m sorry.” 

MOLLY held tight to the kitten with one hand, the other wrapping around Sherlock’s neck as she cried.  “N-no, don’t please—he’s _perfect_.  It’s just…no one’s ever, for me…oh, _Sherlock_ ,” she stammered out, hugging him tightly.   Well, as tightly as she could while keeping the kitten safe between them.  “Thank you.”  She kissed his cheek, her eyes bright with tears as she pulled back.

“You’re welcome. A-and,” he flicked his eyes at Greg before focusing back on MOLLY, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, I forgive you,” she said, her smile soft as she rubbed her nose against the kitten’s.

“Well, Sherlock,” Greg said, wrapping an arm around MOLLY’s waist as he inspected her new pet, “I think this definitely qualifies as an appropriate apology.  Well done, you.”

“It was nothing, really,” Sherlock intoned.

“Don’t let him lie to you,” John said, sliding off the table to come join their cluster by the doorway.  “He spent three days programming him.  I had no idea where he was.  But he really did do a beautiful job on him—told me he’ll play and grow and everything.”  He smiled up at Sherlock as he gently scratched behind the kitten’s ear.  Sherlock felt how proud John was of him and simply beamed.

“That’s amazing detail, even for you, Sherlock,” Greg praised.  “So, Molls, what’re you gonna name the little fella?”

Molly bit her lower lip, grinning as she ran appraising eye over the kitten in her hand.  He batted at the tip of her nose, and she giggled, scrunching her nose under his paw.

“Toby.  I’ll call you Toby,” she said, letting Toby climb her shirt to perch on her shoulder. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from The Merchant of Venice, III:i.


End file.
